


Pills

by freckleslikeconstellations



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Drama, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Mycroft has body issues, Sexual References, inspired by the first series dvd commentary
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-13
Updated: 2016-11-13
Packaged: 2018-08-30 18:38:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,330
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8544715
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/freckleslikeconstellations/pseuds/freckleslikeconstellations
Summary: Mycroft thinks that he needs to take diet pills, but he'll always be beautiful to you.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, thanks to you as always for your support. Be careful as you read on. This theme is a sensitive one.

It is a cold, November night. Mycroft Holmes is scratching away by his grand oak desk in the study in the Victorian house in which he lives. He’s signing documents and making notes, so that he’ll be able to get things moving quicker in work tomorrow when a sudden lapse in concentration at hearing you moving upstairs makes that itch start up again. It begins in his wrists by his pulse points and makes his writing hand twitch and freeze. The desire travels up his arm, beneath the white shirt that it’s bound in, which has the cuffs undone. It catches at his chest and makes his throat tighten. A muscle twitches in his jaw. He lowers his blue fountain pen down to his desk and fiddles with his collar, loosening it some more. His tie is long since discarded and curled up snake like upon his desk. Its navy colour shines a little underneath the glow of the soft lamp and firelight. His legs move, causing his bum to shift against the red velvet cushioned wooden chair that he’s currently sitting on. It’s not the most comfortable of chairs, but it does allow him to stay awake. Something that is most helpful when he’s trying to work. He lets out a little breath and rubs a tired hand across his face. The digital clock that you’d pointedly thrust in front of him and left upon his desk earlier tells him that it is now half past one in the morning. He tries to remember when it was that you’d come in. He thinks that perhaps it had been an hour ago, which isn't too bad. But no, he suddenly thinks, that was last night wasn’t it? Last night that you’d come in at half past twelve. Tonight you’d come in at quarter past eleven. You’d strode in and walked straight across to the window, your h/c hair hanging down straight behind you and your e/c eyes on a mission. You’d berated him for leaving the window open, whilst the fire was on. He’d muttered that he’d done such a thing absent-mindedly, his eyes already back on his papers. You’d huffed out a breath, shut the window, kissed him on the cheek and announced that you were going to bed. He’d hummed in distraction and you’d rolled your eyes, gone to pick the digital clock up from the mantelpiece and shoved it in front of him. He’d moved it off of some of his papers and glanced at you. You’d looked at him with raised eyebrows, folded arms and a foot, which had tapped. It had taken him a moment to work out what you’d wanted. 

 

“Oh yes,” he’d said, “I’ll be up soon.”

 

You’d looked at him as if to tell him that he better be, before you’d departed.

 

Still, Mycroft thinks, there’s little point in him rushing to go up now. For despite the noise that he’d heard coming from upstairs he’s pretty sure that, that had only been you as you’d moved around in your sleep. 

 

He hears the lash of the rain begin to start and thinks that he better close the window. He’d opened it again once you’d left in a preoccupied fashion. Like the uncomfortable chair he finds that the act of cool air drifting in helps to keep him from falling asleep. But all that thought of you has made that itch grow even stronger again and instead of getting up to shut the window he finds himself glancing warily at the half shut door and convincing himself that you must be asleep. He swallows and turns his attention to one of the drawers of his desk, taking the key, which he always keeps on his person out, inserting it and tugging the drawer open. A small brown container of circular diet pills sits there on top of a red folder that is stuffed with loose papers. Mycroft pulls it out. He rolls the container in between his fingers with a frown. He’s not supposed to have them any more and his eyes glance to the door again. 

 

_Six Months Earlier…_

 

“Mycroft? Mycroft?” your voice calls him urgently from the other side of the bathroom door, but he barely hears it from where he’s locked himself inside. 

 

Barely hears it as he pushes pill after pill down his throat because he’s been taking them on and off for years now, but every day recently since you’d moved in. He needs more now though because they’re not working fast enough. Not with all the feelings he has blowing inside him like a hurricane. Not with the uncontrollable terror he feels that you might become disappointed and move out again. He knows that he’s already been acting strangely what with his many excuses and the fact that he’ll only have sex with you if the light is off. He’s already tried to make up for such a thing by asking you to move in with him. But now you have you’re too close and he does not know how to carefully balance the delicacy of your feelings for him along with his own fearful ones about his body, which he’s always been insecure about. He had not ever expected to be in this situation. He’d thought that he’d be alone for the rest of his life. Foolishly tried to believe that he would not mind such a thing. But then you’d moved into 221C and Mycroft had found too many feelings hurtling inside him all too soon and no amount of trying to avoid you had managed to quell them. They’d risen up inside him like a flame and he’d told himself that he’d be fine even when you’d started dating one another. Told himself that by the time things got anywhere near serious with you he’d be whippet thin if he just kept taking his diet pills. But he had not become so and now he’s regretting asking you to move in with him on such a whim and panicking, panicking, panicking because he does not want to lose you, but he looks hideous and he feels so annoyed with himself for letting this situation spiral so out of control in the first place. This is all his fault. If he could just get thin! Sherlock had been right to make fun of his fluctuating weight all these years. He’s hopeless. He shoves another couple of pills inside his mouth. 

 

“Mycroft?” you ask in a wavery tone. You’d noticed his growing agitation the duration of that Saturday. You’d passed it off as being something work related at first. But then, that afternoon, he’d jumped out of the armchair that he’d been brooding in, whilst you’d been reading on the settee close by and scurried off. Feeling worried you’d soon hurried after him. He’d locked himself in the bathroom and you have no idea what he’s doing. You haven’t heard the flush of the toilet or the running of a tap. Worst of all he isn't responding to you at all. “Mycroft? Please! At least tell me that you’re all right if you won’t let me in! I'm getting worried!” you cry, louder still. 

 

Mycroft, who’d just been about to take another couple of pills when you’d called, drops them. He makes a snuffling noise, bends and inadvertently makes the container go flying off where he’d balanced it on the edge of the sink. It hits the floor with a tinkling crash and a load of the circular pills tumble out onto the floor. Cursing he goes on his hands and knees and tries to gather them all up. He takes another one in his mouth as he goes, chewing and pulling a bit of a face at the acidic taste. He retches for one singular moment, before he carries on clustering the fallen pills together again. Made even more anxious by the types of noise that you’re hearing you attempt to throw your body weight against the door. Mycroft’s heart jolts in panic and he looks over his shoulder. You can’t see him like this! You mustn't!

 

“Go away!” he cries hoarsely, before he makes another valiant attempt to gather the pills up again. 

 

It’s your turn to ignore him now however and you hurl yourself against the door a couple more times, before it finally gives way and opens. 

 

He abandons the pills and whirls around, his face pale and tears that he hadn’t even realized he’d been shedding streaked across his cheeks as he pushes himself back against the edge of the bath, his knees coming up to his chest and his hand curling around them protectively as he watches you. 

 

For a moment you just look at him as you pant from your exhaustion, taking in his wild eyes and tousled hair. “What are you-?” But then your eyes dip down to the pills on the floor. You feel like you’re being stabbed repeatedly in the chest as you approach them. You crouch down. Mycroft wants to lunge forwards and snatch the container up, before you can look at it, but he doesn’t seem able to move. This is it, his mind thinks, you’re going to leave him. His body trembles and his mouth gasps. Aside from every time his younger brother has scared him senseless he’s never felt as frightened as he does right now. His mouth opens, shut, opens, shut- _“Diet pills?”_ you question him in a strangled voice, staring at the implication of the words on the container as if you can barely believe that they’re there. They seem to almost make up some foreign language, which doesn’t quite compute with your mind. For surely they can’t belong to him? Surely this scene in front of you isn't actually happening? For why would Mycroft Holmes-British Government and a man smarter than any you know-think that he needs them? You glance at him, whilst your hand lowers the container to the floor. Then, all of a sudden, when you realize that this _is_ real and that this is happening, your face goes taut with anger and you begin to hit him. “You stupid-stupid”- You feel scared about what could have happened just now if you hadn’t intervened and angry with yourself for not having realized just how big a problem this was for him before. You’d just thought it a rather endearing trait. Something that made him human. But now you see that all his odd behaviour-pulling you away from the light when things had started getting heated between you at night, distracting your hands and keeping your mouth occupied with his own to try and divert your thoughts-had been for a far more worrying reason than just a shy embarrassment about love and what lovers do. 

 

Mycroft raises his hands up to try and shield himself from your assault, whilst his head arches back and his body trembles all the more violently. Everything quivers inside him. This is it. You’re going to leave him and he feels like he’s drowning. He closes his eyes and scrunches his face up. 

 

But then, all of a sudden, you push his large hands aside and pepper kisses all over his face, pushing your body lightly against his as you hold on to either side of his head. Feeling even more uncertain Mycroft cautiously opens his eyes and places a delicate hand upon your back, so that you won’t fall. 

 

“How many have you taken? Don’t you see that you’re beautiful?” you pull back from him, tears glistening all over your face. 

 

“I-I”- still shaking Mycroft looks at the pills that remain in the container and then at the ones that are on the floor. He’d been so out of control that he’d just grabbed a new container even though he’d already got one half started in his own personal locked bathroom cabinet. You keep all your own bathroom things in a box. You've never asked to use the cabinet or made him open it. He does a quick calculation, trying to work out the answer to your question, but his mind is sluggish and he can’t be sure of how many he’s taken. In the end he shakes his head. 

 

“Right,” you say, brushing your tears away with a renewed look of determination about your face, “You’re going to hospital.”

 

“I-I”-

 

“Don’t you get it?” you tell him. “You don’t need to be taking those pills. Any of them. You’re wonderful, you”-Mycroft takes your hand with a despairing shake of his head and places it on his side where he can feel a roll of fat-“That’s healthy.” Again Mycroft shakes his head. You seem even angrier at that and you force him to his feet. “Don’t ever take them again,” you say, clutching at his cheeks, “Promise me.” Mycroft’s head goes a little off to the side. “Mycroft?” He looks back at you. _“Please,”_ you beg, “I don’t know what I’d do without you.” Mycroft’s eyes widen. He’d realized that you cared, that you oddly loved him, but it’s only now that he’s beginning to understand just how deep those feelings really run. He stares into your pleading eyes and jerks his head forwards. He doesn’t want to cause you any pain. Your face momentarily brightens and you peck him quickly on the nose. “Thank you,” you say. 

 

You accompany him to hospital and when he’s released and told that he’s going to be fine, but recommended for counselling you fling your arms tightly around his neck and hold his hand all the way home. 

 

There you search from top to bottom and make him unlock every shut drawer. You find forty-nine containers of diet pills, all in various stages of depletion, and throw them all out. You don’t check his person and Mycroft doesn’t tell you about the one that he’d snuck out and stowed in his sock when you’d been distracted elsewhere. Feeling guilty he hides the container when he undresses that night, shoving it in his jacket pocket instead and later stuffing it in one of the drawers of the desk in the study. He knows that you’d be disappointed in him if you knew-he still can’t get the image of how desperate you’d looked when you’d made him promise not to take any of the pills out of his mind-but he already feels panicky about the quantity you’ve gotten rid of-both about the waste and from not knowing how he’s going to cope without them. He can’t possibly not have one for back up. He’s tried all the diets and exercising, but nothing seems to work. Not at the speed he wants it to at any rate. 

 

You’re affectionate, encouraging about the counselling, which he constantly grumbles about before and after each session, and you help him monitor his food intake and exercise. Slowly over the next few weeks you even work on the bedside lamp being softly on as you make love. The first time your fingers had fumbled to switch it on Mycroft’s body had tensed up against yours and his hands had tried to cover himself up. But you’d been so kind, whispering words of adoration into his ear, not increasing the glow of the lamp too much or looking at him beyond a few glances and distracting his hands by putting them on your own body instead. He’d felt excited to see yours in more detail, encouraged by your own shyness and slowly he’d started to lose his inhibitions enough to relax. You’d even gotten married in a small ceremony at a registry office close to the heart of town as a way of Mycroft thanking you for helping him through things and wanting to show you that he’s just as committed to you as you are to him.

 

*

 

But then had come two months ago when Sherlock had played up by taking a case on that Mycroft hadn’t wanted him to, Mycroft’s own work levels had increased and you’d been distracted with a new school term-you’re a Science teacher at a secondary school-and things had started to slip. You’d both been too stressed and tired for any more than a brief touch of affection, before sleep had claimed you. You’d both done your best to keep dinner healthy, but Mycroft had found himself snacking more to cope with everything and it had not been long before he’d noticed the change that such a thing was beginning to wreak on his body and the distinct tightness to his suits. That prickling feeling and urge to take the diet pills had come again, but it had not been until things had settled down a little more in the past two weeks and you’d still been going to bed without making love that it had raised up inside him even more. 

 

Now Mycroft sits there with his diet pills in his hand as he contemplates the fact that you might have noticed his weight gain and be finding the sight of him with his suits on these days bad enough without encouraging him to take them off too. He swallows and his fingers give a soft caress to the container of diet pills, before they tighten their hold upon it. The muscle twitches in his jaw again. He knows that you would not approve of the direction that his thoughts are taking. But if he could just use them to try and help his body get more quickly back into the shape that it had been two months ago, which you’d seemed to find acceptable then that would be a start at least and you’d probably be more willing to be intimate with him. When he’d wrapped a probing arm around you the other night, placing his hand on your stomach, you’d mumbled his name and sleepily pushed it off, before you’d rolled further over. That had hurt, but he’d been able to tell that you hadn’t remembered such a thing in the morning and he hadn’t wanted to mention it to you himself. He doesn’t think that there’s anything wrong with you or that you’re feeling under the weather. You’re still as normal and thankfully as bossy as ever, wanting to get him into line. You’re a little more tired and you’ve put on two pounds, but Mycroft feels practically envious because you wear the extra weight so well, carrying it evenly on your hips like a new fashion accessory. No, his grip tightens upon the diet pills container, he feels sure that despite your encouragement for him to come up to bed, that, that had just been you not wanting him to work too hard and not a siren call. He’s the one at fault here. He must do something to change it. He tilts the container upright and twists the cap, undoing it, but not taking it off. A sudden breeze rattles the windows, sending a draught through the empty one, which he still hasn’t closed. It blows the fire out, sending a smattering of charred remnants about and a sheaf of papers off his desk. Mycroft curses, deposits the diet pill container on the desk and heads to close the window. 

 

He’s just gone around and is crouched on the floor, gathering up the papers when he hears your voice call, _“Mycroft?”_

 

He fumbles and lays the papers that he’s already collected back down upon the floor. “Coming my dear,” he calls to you over his shoulder, not knowing that right at this very moment you’re wrapping your white dressing gown around yourself and creeping downstairs. He turns back to his papers, but starts violently when he hears the door opening behind him. He looks over his shoulder again and lets out a breath of relief when he sees that it’s you. 

 

“What are you”-

 

“Window,” he murmurs, gesturing to it sheepishly. 

 

You shake your head at him. “Well, that’s what happens when you”- you break off, your eyes having caught sight of something upon the desk. Mycroft follows your gaze and swallows when he sees how prominently the diet pill container seems to be standing out. There’s no way that you haven’t seen it. There’s nothing blocking your sight of it at all. “What’s that?” you nod at it sharply and Mycroft, having heard the dangerous edge to your tone, winces. He stands and turns to you. You look between it and him. His mouth opens and closes. 

 

“I-I”- he begins, wondering how he can possibly explain all of this. 

 

You go across to it and your face darkens as you pick up the familiar container and recognize it even more. “What is this doing here?” You turn back to him, your eyes dark, free hand on your hip and foot looking like it might be about to start tapping. Mycroft swallows, licks nervously at his lips and looks down. One of his feet shift against the floor. He feels like a naughty schoolboy who’s just about to be told off by the stern Headmistress. “Mycroft?” you say more threateningly, “What the hell is this doing here after I went around the house months ago and got rid of each one? Did you order more?” Mycroft swallows again, but doesn’t say anything. “Answer me God damn you!” you throw the diet pill container towards him. It swoops in an arc past the side of him and bounces off the floor, sending the lid flying and many of the diet pills tumbling out, before it rolls to a stop by the fireplace. 

 

Mycroft looks anxiously around at it for a moment. There are still a fair few pills in the container, which haven’t been dirtied. Good, he can still use them. He looks back at you. His stomach churns at your unsmiling face. “I-I haven’t taken any,” he feels compelled to tell you.

 

“But you were going to?” you ask him knowingly. 

 

“I-I was thinking about it,” he confesses, “But I just keep it around f-for back-up. It was in my sock before. You didn't search it.”

 

You blow out a breath and look off to the side. “Well, I won’t be making that mistake again.” You look back to him as a thought occurs to you. “What do you mean _‘back-up?’”_ Your eyes flash. “Back-up so that you could use them when you don’t even need to?” 

 

“I-I”-

 

“Why were you thinking of using them? Why now?” you override him, taking a step towards him. 

 

He swallows. “I-I know that we've been rather busy lately my love and that things have been hectic”-

 

“No,” you raise a finger in the air. Mycroft flinches. “No terms of endearment from you until you explain what the hell’s going on here! And this better be good Mycroft,” you warn him.

 

Again Mycroft swallows. “I thought that since things have calmed down a little in the past couple of weeks that we-well-we might have”-he shrugs hopelessly. You frown-“But when we didn't I”-here he swallows again-“Well I couldn't help but think that maybe it was because I’ve rather let myself go”-

 

_“Let yourself go?”_ your brow furrows. 

 

Mycroft nods. “I’ve put on a few pounds”-

 

_“I’ve_ put on a few pounds,” you counter, feeling embarrassed to say such a thing, but it’s true. He’s not the only one wearing clothes that have a slightly tighter feel to them. 

 

“Only two,” Mycroft informs you, before he gets a rather endearing blush about his face as he confesses, “In any case they don’t make you look bad.”

 

“And I don’t exactly find myself struggling to look at you either,” you go across to him, cupping at his cheeks with tender hands. 

 

_“But”-_

 

“I’ve been tired,” you lower your hands to his chest. “I'm sorry,” you look at him, “I had no idea that I was making you feel that way. I'm still recovering from everything that’s been going on in these past couple of months and the season, _that’s_ making me tired, but it was never anything to do with you. I haven’t been feeling very attractive myself,” you confess and Mycroft touches at your cheek as if to reassure you that you couldn't be any more desirable in his eyes. You smile up at him gratefully. “I just didn't want to give you a half-hearted fumble in the middle of the night. You deserve more than that.”

 

Mycroft’s lips find yours in the next moment and you make a sound of appreciation against him as his hands wrap around you and push you closer.

 

As you pull away your eyes catch against the diet pills on the floor again. “I'm going to light a fire in the morning and throw them all in there,” you vow, nodding at them and feeling regretful that you hadn’t predicted this happening. Mycroft’s as bad as Sherlock sometimes. You should have known that his insecurity wouldn't have allowed him to get rid of them all. You decide that you’ll chuck the container in the bin at the soonest opportunity and hope that things will work out better this time. 

 

“All right,” Mycroft gives you permission, looking down at you tenderly as his hands move to tighten upon your waist. With you standing by him again he thinks that he might be able to cope with anything, even the loss of those pills. His heart emits a pang. Perhaps he’s not ready for that quite yet. 

 

Seeing the uncertainty about him still you swear inwardly to yourself that you’ll concentrate more on him and his feelings. You take his hand, guide him back to his desk so that you can switch off the black lamp and lead him upstairs. You’re going to show him how wonderful he is and make sure that he never has a reason for wanting to take those diet pills ever again. “Come,” you pull him inside the bedroom, “Let your wife show you how much she loves you.”


End file.
